


Good SHIELD Agents Never Die

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: #coulsonlives, Established Relationship, Fix-It, M/M, The Power of Fandom Compels You Joss, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They just go back to work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good SHIELD Agents Never Die

**Author's Note:**

> **SPOILERS FOR THE MOVIE.**
> 
> Written because #COULSONLIVES!
> 
> I wanted to write something like this as soon as I heard the news, but I had to wait a few days for the Pheels to settle and the idea to gel.
> 
> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's, not mine.
> 
> Big thanks to [Maquis Leader](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Maquis_Leader/pseuds/Maquis_Leader) for all her help. Any mistakes are mine, definitely not hers.

 

Phil is already awake when his alarm goes off, and he automatically reaches over to slap it off, stifling a pained grunt as the move pulls on his still healing chest and shoulder muscles. They are always stiffer first thing in the morning. 

He lies quietly for another moment or two, just contemplating life as he stares into the dark, Clint's breath warm and steady against his neck. Then, with a sigh, he begins the delicate process of disentangling himself.

"Mmm... no," Clint protests sleepily, clinging tighter, and Phil smiles.

Clint swears up and down that he is not a cuddler and never has been, and every morning, Phil wakes up with an octopus, all grabby hands and tangled limbs.

"Sorry, have to," he whispers. "Gotta go to work."

He wonders if his voice really sounds as gleeful as he thinks it does. It's the same excitement he felt every year on the first day of school -- Clint would laugh at him if he heard that analogy, but Phil has always been an unapologetic geek.

He brushes a kiss over Clint's sleep-tousled hair as he climbs out of bed, and Clint sighs as he instantly rolls into Phil's spot as Phil vacates it, burrowing back into the blankets and the leftover warmth. Phil resolutely resists the urge to crawl right back into bed, and turns instead toward the bathroom.

After a quick shower and shave, he's back in the dark bedroom, lit only by the light spilling through the half-closed bathroom door. He carefully and quietly dons his suit -- a new one, he has a closet half-full of new suits, a get well gift from Pepper and Tony. Though it was accepted under vehement and vociferous protest, it really was a necessary gift, as his old wardrobe no longer fits right -- he has lost both weight and muscle tone, and though he is working diligently to get it back, it's going to take a while.

His gaze is repeatedly drawn to the bed as he dresses, his lips twitching into a smile every time. Clint Barton comfortably and securely asleep in his bed is still a beautifully novel sight, and one that Phil knows he'll never, ever tire of.

He sits on the edge of the bed to put his socks and shoes on, blinking in surprise as Clint is suddenly kneeling in front of him.

A nearly-naked, sleepy-eyed Clint on his knees before him is always a welcome view, but it is a patently unfair one when Phil has to leave for work soon.

Clint grins wickedly, well aware of what Phil's thinking, and then he takes the sock from Phil's hand to slide it on Phil's foot, and a wave of love rolls relentlessly through Phil. He can't help but run a hand fondly through Clint's flattened, messy hair.

Some things are still more painful for Phil than others, and Clint knows that bending to struggle with his socks and shoes is near the top of the list.

"What's your schedule for today?" Phil asks, and Clint frowns, concentrating on getting Phil's sock straight.

"Team meeting here at 8:30 -- just our regular weekly meeting, so Cap said we don’t need our SHIELD liaison there, which sucks, if you ask me." He grins up at Phil and then refocuses on what he’s doing. "Range time from 10-12. Shrink time from 2:30-4. Hiding in the vents time from 4-5."

His lip curls into a smile as he says the last part, but it's not really a joke. Clint always needs quiet time to himself after the hours spent in Psych; he needs time and space to process everything said and done there, and Phil always gives it to him, whether he chooses to spend his me-time in the vents, or on the roof, or in an unused office, or -- Phil's favorite -- in Phil's office.

Phil knows, from Jasper and Maria and Nick, that Clint rarely spends time in the vents anymore. Hawkeye dropping suddenly from the ceiling is no longer a funny joke for some agents -- instead, it's a terrifying reminder, and Clint has chosen simply to avoid the vents and the possibility.

It's just one more thing Loki has stolen from Clint -- one of his few safe havens -- and the thought makes Phil unbelievably angry. He breathes deeply to calm himself as Clint finishes his task and moves to sit on the bed beside Phil.

"You free for lunch?" Clint asks.

"I'll be probably too busy -- " Phil starts, and then he stops, because it wasn't really a question, and the look Clint is giving him is deeply unimpressed.

One of Director Fury's conditions for signing off on Phil's return to moderate duty is that he follows _all_ of Medical's recommendations, and one of those is regular meals. Phil knows Clint will not hesitate to rat him out to Nick if he skips lunch, so he sighs and nods, as though having lunch with Clint is a terrible hardship.

"I guess," he says petulantly, and Clint grins.

"Would you like me to tie your tie for you, sir?" he asks innocently.

Phil shivers at the mere thought of Clint's graceful, beautiful hands sliding over the silk, brushing against his jaw. "You do, and we'll end up back in bed," he says, and he laughs when Clint's eyes gleam hopefully in the half-light.

"Maybe tomorrow morning." He pulls Clint in for a long, slow kiss before he reluctantly stands and takes his tie from where it's slung over the footboard.

"Go back to sleep," he murmurs, gently brushing Clint’s hair off his forehead before determinedly turning away and draping his tie around his neck. "You don't have to be up for a while yet."

Phil faces the mirror to tie his tie, swallowing harshly at the reflection of Clint literally crawling across the bed to curl up under the covers again.

He shrugs into his suit jacket and picks up his briefcase before stopping at the door and turning for one last look.

"Have a good day, dear," comes a mocking voice from the depths of the blankets, and Phil grins.

"You too, honey."

He stops in the communal kitchen, where coffee is available from the automatic coffeemaker and toast is available from the automatic toaster, and Phil resolutely does not think of what else might be on offer, because Tony's kitchen appliances terrify him. 

Coffee, toast, and briefcase in hand, he sets off.

The trip to headquarters is thankfully uneventful, and Phil uses the time to compose a mental checklist for his day. It's habit, but ultimately futile -- his checklists are always shot to hell five minutes after he opens his email, but a man can hope.

The lobby looks the same as it always has, and Phil thinks that's strange -- it should look different, given how long he's been away. It's hard to believe he hasn't been back through here yet, but all of his meetings and appointments since his return to even light duty have been at Medical or at Psych, or at the tower or on the still-being-repaired helicarrier, and he's had no call to come through the lobby before now.

He nods amiably at the agents on the desk as he swipes in, and then he stops, because something _is_ different.

The wall of SHIELD Service Martyrs is nearly twice as large as it was before. 

Phil knows without a doubt that Clint is using the less convenient, less traveled western entrance to headquarters now, because whatever progress he's made, whatever he tells himself, whatever Psych tells him, this would not be easy for him to see every morning.

He stands silently for a moment, thanking them all for their sacrifice, and then he continues toward his office.

He only passes a few people in the halls this early. Some of them look surprised to see him, and clearly, not everyone recognizes him, but all of the ones who do know him give him a smile and a "Welcome back, sir," and he acknowledges each of them with a polite nod and his thanks.

He stops in the break room for more coffee, and in the department office for his internal mail, since it's too early for his personal admin to be in yet.

"Good morning, Agent Coulson," his department's executive admin says with a smile as she hands him his mail. And then, as though he has only been gone since Friday, she adds, "How was your weekend, sir?"

She is a quiet, ruthlessly efficient older woman who can cut with a look, eviscerate with a word, and kill with a ballpoint pen. Phil adores her.

"Good morning, Mrs. Larson. It was very nice, thank you. And yours?"

They chat for a few moments until one of the junior agents rushes in, practically in tears, and Mrs. Larson rolls her eyes at Phil before turning to the young man with a sympathetic expression.

Juggling coffee, mail, and briefcase, Phil manages to get his office unlocked and his door open, and then shut behind him.

He rounds the desk and stops. There, in the center of his desk, is a package of the little snack food donuts that are his not-so-secret weakness.

There is a purple post-it note stuck to the package, "Glad to have you back, sir," scrawled in black ballpoint, and it is signed, unnecessarily, with a tiny sketch of an arrow.

Phil stands and stares at it, and he knows there is a goofy smile on his face, but his office door is closed and it is not yet 7:30 in the morning, and there is no one else around, so it doesn't matter. He carefully peels off the post-it note and tucks it into his briefcase. The donuts he sets aside -- he's bound to need either a mid-morning or mid-afternoon pick-me-up today.

With a sigh, he sinks into his chair, and it is like greeting an old friend.

Five months and nine days after bleeding out and being declared dead on the deck of the helicarrier, Phil turns on his computer and gets back to work -- light duty as he convalesced at the tower doesn't count, since he was merely filling out paperwork and forwarding emails to the relevant parties who could actually _do_ something. _This_... this is _real_ work.

Within twenty minutes, he has individual meetings scheduled with Fury, Hill, and the heads of R&D and Recruitment, he's fielded emails written with varying degrees of desperation by Sitwell, Davis, Russell and half a dozen other senior agents, all clamoring for his advice, observations, recommendations, or analysis, he has _three_ new checklists, and he's received eighteen automatic notifications for missing and overdue reports from various Avengers. He already knows that lunch with Clint is going to be a working lunch, and the thought fills him with bone deep satisfaction.

This is where he belongs, and he is beyond glad -- and so _very_ grateful -- to be back.


End file.
